Oskar's Box
by Me
Summary: the Heroes use Schultz to help them escape, & his family insists on going, too. But why? And what's with the box they insist on taking?


A/N: I'm concentrating so much on other stuff, I don't really have any more Hogan's ideas, and so put up a few of my favorites that I wrote. Though some are a little too hard to do w/the number of changes that would need made grammatically, etc., to make it clearer. Many were written 4-6 years ago years ago. (Feel free to use my favorite joke from one story, though, one what the Heroes do - convincing this one SS guy he's gravely ill and must retire and shred all his records by telling them he had bifurcation of the pelvis and is already hopelessly bipedal.)  
  
So, here, to finish, is one of my first stories, written from Schultz's POV about 7 years ago, and the attempt at first person POV makes it unique. It may well be my last in this genre, though you never know. It's an idea I had to explain how things might have gone w/the Heroes fleeing, and also my first attempt at showing Schultz and his family, whereas I had Schultz far more conscious of knowing nothing later. With my own characters, in fact, the non-HH part of this concept could become a Print-on-demand book someday, greatly expanded & maybe changed some of course. If it does I'll update this A/N.  
  
And now, our feature presentation:  
  
Oskar's Box  
  
I sat at the table consuming a home cooked meal. I cannot say I enjoyed it, for it wasn't as tasty as what French prisoner Louis LeBeau would prepare back at my place of employment, the German POW camp Stalag 13. However, it still beat anything soldiers received. The lack of quality wasn't all my wife's fault, though. According to LeBeau, German food is "just inherently inedible."  
  
"That boy eats like a pig," I remarked as I glanced at the teen on my left. I knew my wife often purchased immense amounts of food for our five children, but this was ridiculous. Not two minutes after he'd sat down, an entire course had been disposed of by my eldest, Oskar, a tall, strong young man of 15. The others didn't seem far behind as the lad went for seconds, returning to scarf food down. I noticed he wasn't eating quite as fast, but he still seemed intent on devouring even the plate. Where do these children put that food, I wondered.  
  
"He is a growing boy," my wife, Gretchen, explained matter-of-fatly.  
  
I glanced away and then back. No, this time the food hadn't just vanished. Still, Oskar ate fast. "Yes, and soon he will grow through the roof." The family laughed at my joke, and I sensed the joy of home had returned, at least for the duration of my three-day pass.  
  
Rather fat myself - one could see where I would put all that food - I walked over to the large pot, hoping to grab seconds. "Is anyone eating this," I inquired, pointing to a package which I presumed contained some of the casserole.  
  
"That is for Mrs. Mueller," Gretchen declared in what, to me, seemed like a slightly scolding voice. This war has us all a little edgy with the Allies nearing the Rhine and our home town, I considered.  
  
Ignoring the harsh tone, I returned to the table empty-handed. I tried to recall when I'd last heard...oh, yes, she was the widow they took food to, I'd heard of her on a one-week leave a couple years before this. "Is Mrs. Mueller still living?" It sounds like a dumb question, but I ask lots of absent-minded questions.  
  
"Of course she, is, dumbkopf," my wife said in a loving way. "Why would we get food for her if she were dead?" I always appreciated the teasing humor my wife applied. Colonel Hogan, the head POW at Stalag 13, would love her, I considered.  
  
"I do not know," I admitted.  
  
Minutes later, as my wife and several children shooed me out of the kitchen and cleaned the dishes, I sauntered toward my den. I pondered the hours I'd spent developing toys there. My children had had valuable parts of their lives stripped by war. What had caused it, I wondered. I still debated inwardly whether the war was just, especially now that the Allies seemed so close to entering Germany. It would not be long...no, that was a defeatist attitude, I reminded myself. But, were wars just only because of who won or lost?  
  
I noticed Oskar reading what seemed to be Nazi literature - what Hogan called propaganda. Ah, Colonel Hogan. I walked in and leaned back at my desk, reminiscing about my first meeting with Hogan, when I was not yet chief of the guards. America was not at war, but Hogan managed to stay - arranged, perhaps - by mentioning that he'd helped fly lots of missions in what he called "lend-lease", wherein America supported the British war effort. Thus labeled an aide of the enemy, so he could not be repatriated, Hogan had tricked the kommandant, Wilhelm Klink, into thinking he possessed medical expertise. This had allowed Hogan, an officer, to remain at a camp which normally contained only enlisted men. I still could not determine why Hogan had done this, except for jokes that he "liked the atmosphere."  
  
Hogan spent his early days at that camp chatting with various guards, each of who, like myself, blindly followed Hitler because he was the leader. I recollected how Hogan treated him, unlike most German military men, quite kindly. The colonel had explained things about Hitler I had never considered. By pretending to be such things as the King of Siam, a pro baseball player, and a Hollywood agent at different times early in his stay, Hogan showed me how easily people could be fooled. Certainly, others had been duped by one or two ploys, but only I had been gullible enough to fall for the most ridiculous of ideas those first few months.  
  
Perhaps, I considered as I gazed upward, that gullibility had helped me graduate, as it were, to the next level, a level no other guard achieved. Hogan showed me how Hitler had trained others to be mean and nasty, to shoot first and ask questions later, and other things which went against my very nature. Hogan even admitted his nation's own faults - racism, the bloody institution of slavery in the last century, etc. When had my leaders ever admitted such things, he'd asked me once. I had admitted that they would not. Such honesty had almost turned me into a friend of theirs.  
True, I'd thought of reporting Hogan for his antics, at times when I'd been around them too little and become indoctrinated once more in Nazi ideology. However, I did not wish to take sides in war, not when I wasn't receiving all the facts. I couldn't think of being a Nazi for long, given my leaders' lies.  
  
No wonder I was so happy, I reminisced, one time I was home, and I noticed the cover of Oskar's book was phony, and that he'd really been reading the Bible. Not wishing Oskar to feel a need to hide any anti-Nazi feelings, I decided to chat with the boy. As Oskar put his coat on, I asked him "where are you going?"  
  
"To take food to the widow," Oskar stammered slightly, a small package in one arm..  
  
I enjoyed the thought, feeling a nice walk would be a good time to chat with the boy, and declared: "Wait, I will go with you."  
  
I felt shocked and saddened when Oskar announced calmly that "I'm sorry, you cannot." The apparent rejection gave way to anger, and I quickly put my foot down.  
  
"What do you mean, I cannot," exclaimed I, upset mostly at the rejection, "I want to spend some time alone talking with my son, and I am going to..."  
  
"Leave him alone, he is just being a teenager," came my wife's insistent voice from the kitchen.  
  
"We can talk later, Father," Oskar answered, relieving me a little. However, the hurried way in which the boy left puzzled me. I stood at the door watching for the longest time, until the boy turned a corner and disappeared from view. Why was I being treated like this? Was it my being sergeant of the guard? Was Oskar so against the military that he would turn on his own father? Or, did he somehow know that I had been derelict in my duties at camp, thus opening me up to the scorn of a professed young Nazi.  
The latter concept worried me immensely, as I considered others whose children had turned them in years before, in the early days of Hitler. I couldn't bear to inspect the book, fearing it would be Nazi propaganda; I was almost sure that was the same falsely covered book, but what if it wasn't? It would break my heart.  
  
My daughter Heidi was skimming it, anyway. Even if I owned the courage, I could not determine if this had been a Bible my eldest had been reading or Nazi propaganda, since Heidi would know I'd looked, and would then tell Oskar.  
  
Even my wife seems a trifle suspicious, I considered. The family certainly sticks together well, I gave her that much. She is not much on looks, I appraised, but she is strong and determined to keep us together, things which are vital during a war. Unfortunately, those were also qualities which would keep her from doing anything she did not wish to do, including invading her son's privacy. She could be willing, I pondered, but I would not take that chance.  
  
Indeed, I could think of no Germans whom he could trust. As Hogan told me, Nazi society grew around fear of being branded a traitor. Ironically, I decided, the only person I could turn to was an American. The man who had taught me - warned me, really - about how convincing Hitler could be, and how the society had been built around utter dread and nastiness, might be able to diagnose Oskar's action. Whatever happened, it was best to be near Hogan, anyway, in case I were hunted by the Gestapo. That way, given the strange ways in which Hogan worked, I might be able to get out of Germany alive.  
  
I pretended to shuffle through my desk drawers, and built a strategy. I would say I left something important, and I told my wife this. It would be a drive of a couple hours, but that wouldn't be too bad, the children would be busy preparing for bed, anyway. But, how would I get into Colonel Hogan's barracks, then? I tried to recall other entrances to the tunnel system - why fool myself, that's what it was, and I knew it. I simply chose not to recognize it so as not to be involved; errors of omission, to me, were not treasonous.  
  
The only place I recalled, if it still existed, was the doghouse...no, there might be one in Klink's quarters, too. That would be better, the guard dogs somehow loved the prisoners and hated my guts. Could Klink's quarters...no, I reminded myself, that would seem more dubious, trying to get in there And, if I wasn't suspected then, doing something like that would make them assume I was doing something wrong. Best to run into him by chance, I deduced, and suddenly my desire to go to Stalag 13 made very little sense, seeing what little I could really do. But, by this time, I was already there.  
  
I noticed a flurry of activity around the camp, but decided to enter, anyway. I informed the guard at the gate that I was only returning to retrieve an item, but the sentry would not let me in. "Sorry, Herr Sergeant, no one is allowed in or out, Major Hochstetter's order."  
  
What has Hogan done now, I thought as the guard asked if there were anything he could get. Remembering a book I sometimes read, delivered by one of the prisoners from a Red Cross package, I mentioned that. The guard sent a private to retrieve it from my quarters, and began to make small talk.  
  
"What is going on?" I inquired, feeling odd here in civilian clothes.  
  
"I am not at liberty to say; I am not sure myself," the guard remarked.  
  
I snickered. What would Hogan do with whatever opportunity was presenting itself? I decided against asking the guard to get Hogan, as that might alert them to the fact something uncouth was afoot. Besides, I knew with the intense activity around Stalag 13 Hogan might be out of the camp, anyway.  
  
The private soon returned, and I thanked him. What now, I wondered as I drove along the main road. Something inside told me to take a chance, and I determined the place where I'd seen a parachute without a man ever being discovered, along with several other unusual things. Sure enough, as I pulled alongside the road, there stood...was that him? After a couple seconds, I determined it must be Hogan who crouched in the bushes in a German colonel's uniform.  
  
I ambled out of the car, stunned but not incredibly so. After all, I'd almost expected that if Hogan was there, he would be wearing something he should not be. "Colonel Hogan!" I exclaimed, quickly being shushed. Good thinking, I do not want to be seen out here with you, I pondered. "What are you doing here?" whispered I.  
  
"I could ask the same about you. Newkirk," Hogan ordered, "watch for you-know-who and give the signal." Turning back to me, he asked me to state my business. Of course, the request was more informal, but as I had been away from Hogan for almost eighteen hours, I'd grown accustomed to that dangerous persuasiveness he'd been warned of many times, which made any little suggestion appear to be a direct order.  
  
"I came back to camp to get something," I stated, keeping my story straight, adding, "but I needed to talk to you." I noticed a low-flying plane, which Newkirk signaled with a flashlight. That must be you-know- who, I deduced, as a man descended by parachute.  
  
Hogan got up to greet the man being dropped, when I grabbed his arm. "Wait a minute, I gotta give this man something." The American quickly shook me off.  
  
Despite sensing Hogan's impatience, I trailed the American colonel like a puppy following its mother. This had to be more important than whatever monkey business this man was trying to accomplish. I once again confronted my inner battle while doing so. I saw why Oskar might feel tension, reading the Book of Love but constantly hearing the hate preached by Nazis. My mind flashed to a Jewish family...was it the Rubins? Their oldest children had been close friends of a couple of my own offspring. Shortly after I'd come to Stalag 13, my wife wrote him that the SS had taken the family, perhaps for deportation, and that an explosion had followed, destroying the Rubins' home. I didn't know what happened to the Jews, but knowledge of this case had made me consider how bad his leaders could be, to inspire whomever blew up their home. And, something inside told me that it could be far worse than simple destruction of property for this and other families, for why would leaders preaching hatred themselves offer to protect those they professed to hate? Perhaps, I decided, this was another reason why I ignored so much of what Hogan and his men did.  
  
Still, I considered as I viewed an exchange of codes from a short distance, these men were not being hated for their race. They were prisoners and some secret agent, or Underground leader, or something. They were soldiers, and soldiers were supposed to be captured or killed in battle. I could have earned a medal for finding these people. Of course, I would turn them in after I asked Hogan about Oskar.  
  
"No," I told myself, "don't be dumb. Hogan has been on the side of truth for so long, I don't recall the last time I totally trusted another person."  
  
I still remember the night Hitler, or someone I think was Hitler, had been in camp for a couple minutes. When Kommandant Klink and General Burkhalter clamored about how wonderful a man he was, all I could say or think about was how persuasive the man was. Hogan's teaching had worked - I recognized brainwashing.  
  
Unfortunately, I felt powerless to stop it, as I constantly felt the tug back toward Naziism by the society in which I lived. I'd teetered on the brink of reporting Hogan and his men many times before, and I approached that crossroad once again. And, once again, I somehow knew, even without the threat of getting in trouble - one which Hogan used on me a good deal - I would decide to know nothing, see nothing, and hear nothing. It was safest, and involved the least hassle.  
"Please, Colonel Hogan, it is about my son," came my concerned voice. I hoped Hogan would give a concise answer without my providing details, because I could think of none to provide. Nothing on which I could truly elaborate, anyway.  
  
Hogan glanced at his watch. "You guys know what to do, it won't make any different if I'm there or not right now, go on ahead. I'll be there in a couple minutes," came from Hogan's mouth. The others obeyed, and now I faced an American colonel who seemed more than a little distracted and annoyed. "What is it, Schultz."  
  
"Colonel Hogan, please, I am afraid my son might be thinking of turning me in - that is, not that I have done anything wrong," I stammered, "but I have ignored you, and my wife knows you have a girlfriend in Germany from the time I took that...was it a flowerpot I took for you? Anyway, it might also be he thinks I am too loyal, and maybe he is doing something he should not, although I do not think so, because..."  
  
Hogan interrupted, telling me I was making no sense, a fact I recognized but usually couldn't help. "How old is he?" came the inquiry, which seemed genuine. When informed of the age, Hogan told me that this was typical for his age, making me feel only vaguely more comfortable.  
  
Pressed for more help, Hogan explained that, "Families have split apart and reported one another, but it's pretty uncommon now. You'd see reporting of family members early, but this late in the war, I think that's gone. If a family is still together after all they will have gone through, and nobody's turned anyone in so far, they'll stick it out to the end, no matter which side anyone's on." I considered that he might be pausing to think, when Hogan spouted that "a neutral like yourself, there's a position there, one that doesn't want to get involved. And, someone like that won't be working for either side."  
  
"Thank you Colonel Hogan...I think," I replied, suddenly curling my lip. Did this mean not to worry? I supposed so; Hogan seemed to have a good number of German friends. My own family had stuck together quite nicely, and I supposed it would continue.  
  
"Anyway, I gotta run, but nice chatting with you," Hogan said, beginning to leave before English corporal Peter Newkirk and American sergeant Andrew Carter running toward us. I wondered why Hogan suddenly looked gravely concerned. People come and go all the time from there, I pondered.  
"Too late," I heard Carter say, "Kinch and Baker had to close down and blow everything, we've got twenty coming out, not counting the guy they dropped to take the heat off."  
  
Hogan suddenly moved toward my car. The American colonel disguised as a German colonel motioned Carter, Newkirk, and two other prisoners - LeBeau and a black sergeant named James Kinchloe, who'd hurriedly joined them - to get in. "Schultzie, can we stay at your house a few days?" Newkirk inquired, perhaps joking.  
  
"Can't," Kinch reported as I drove down the road like a maniac, fearing being caught with the others in the car. "I heard on the coffeepot just before we left, they were going to go through Klink's and Schultz's homes thoroughly to look for stuff." Thorough...but Klink didn't ignore things like I did, I recalled. The two could not be unrelated, could they? I heard Kinch conclude that, "They'll be delayed because half the camp caved in when Baker set the secondary explosives, and we blew out the switchboard, so Hochstetter has to go into town to call for the inspections; plus, they won't get on it right away. Might be twenty dozen who eventually escape. That will draw a lot of attention, too."  
So they've put me out of a job, I considered. Now, would I be able to go anywhere? Would I get sent to the front? Would they let me go home - no, that could never have happened. I considered that perhaps the best answer would be to escape with Hogan, as I'd once requested.  
  
While hearing some vague talk about destinations, I slowed down considerably, not wishing to attract attention. "Drop us off at this address," I heard from beside me, and suddenly Hogan was flipping a note card in front of me with an address, barely visible in the moonlight. I nodded - it would only be a few blocks from his home. Had Hogan planned that so I could escape, too, if need be?  
  
The non-uniformed men scrunched down in the back seat in case we passed a checkpoint, but Hogan's directions successfully allowed us to evade this hassle all but once, when we passed a place at which Hogan produced phony papers. It appeared to the sentries as if I were taking three men - somehow with proper identity papers - home for a visit.  
The escaping prisoners got out at the requested address, and I pulled into my driveway. The clock read almost midnight, perhaps still early enough for me to talk to Oskar.  
  
I discovered the boy in the bedroom he shared with two brothers. Listening, I noticed prayers for a quick end to the war. Perhaps Hogan was right, I considered, they have taken my stance, believing they should take no sides in this conflict. Still, I trembled slightly as I invited Oskar to sit up and converse with me in the kitchen.  
  
Oskar obediently came out, and we sat at opposite ends of the table. "You look worried, Father," came the voice which would soon be fully adult.  
  
I chose to tell the truth, as it could catch Oskar in the act if he was thinking of delivering me to the Gestapo. "I just heard the Gestapo was coming to take this house apart, piece by piece, to make sure there is nothing..." I paused, noticing my eldest saying a short prayer. "Oh, do not worry, it is just because of some monkey business at the camp..."  
I had no time to explain. Suddenly, Oskar ran through every room of the house saying odd things which could only be codes, people were scurrying everywhere, and the commotion was such I half-expected Colonel Hogan to pop out of one of the cupboards from a secret tunnel.  
  
I stood, eyes darting back and forth as I tried in vain to make sense of the scrambling. My youngest two had quickly been awakened by 11-year- old Carl. Albert, 13, was grabbing papers and books. Gretchen rushed to grab clothes. "What is this, what is this," I inquired loudly. "What is going on here?" I could find nobody responding, so I confronted my wife as she ran into the kitchen. "Dear, what..."  
  
"Thank goodness there is time. Eat this," she ordered, handing me a small, apparently ripped piece of paper. I could now hear paper tearing elsewhere. But, Colonel Hogan never even ate paper...did he? I wondered.  
  
"You want me...to eat..." I began, but before I was through, Gretchen was discussing that "ladyfriend of Hogan's," wondering if I would go get her. I stuffed the shred in my pocket.  
  
"How should I remember that?" I wanted to know. "And why is everyone running around like chickens with their heads cut off?" Oskar had disappeared.  
"Is not everyone afraid of the Gestapo?" came the answer, which somehow sounded prepared. Why would she prepare an answer, I asked myself. Then again, why wouldn't she, they jumped on the least bit of nervousness and make it look like guilt. They also jumped on the fact one was breathing and made it look like guilt. Yes, she was right to be concerned, I concluded. But, all this action? She ate paper herself, much to my relief, as I could take any of her cooking over something which was once a tree trunk.  
  
I announced that Hogan was temporarily stationed a few blocks away, and had "escaped himself. Mmm, there I go again, with my big mouth!"  
  
"Your mouth could fit a stack of papers. Go, see if he can get us to Switzerland," she commanded. I glanced around as I departed, noticing Carl going into the cellar. What now, I thought.  
  
I drove several blocks, ensuring I wasn't followed. "Why am I doing this? I am not suspected, they are just checking because of all the craziness at camp," I tried to reassure myself. I walked up to the door and began to knock, but before I could do so I was grabbed and jerked inside by someone who quickly closed the door.  
  
"What are you doin' here?" Newkirk asked me once I was inside. "This area's gonna be crawling with Gestapo soon," the British soldier complained.  
  
I sighed. "I have got to see if Colonel Hogan can get my family out, they want to go to Switzerland..." he began, noticing the lady whom I'd delivered a flowerpot to and whom Hogan had said was his "girlfriend.". "Is she in on this too?"  
"The Allied occupied zone in France is less than half the distance Switzerland is now," the lady remarked, "but there will be many troops. It means fewer checkpoints, and more chaos, which will get you through. That is the proper route if you wish to go together. I must first ensure you are genuine. What is Hogan's code name?"  
  
Code name? I was supposed to know that? "Listen, lady, I am not an escaped prisoner, but I am also not a spy, and I am not Gestapo."  
  
"You can trust him, love," Newkirk responded. To me, the Britisher - still in German uniform - instructed: "Go home, tell them Hogan will be over in a minute, soon as he gets the bigger truck."  
  
I sighed, lowering my head and turning away. It was the best I could do. "Jawohl." I could not imagine leaving home, but that would be necessary, if my family truly was doing something they should not. But, I'd noticed nothing before; at least with Hogan I had seen things. Many things, in fact. As I left the lady's home, I turned back to see Newkirk still guarding the door. Hogan must be very busy right now, I decided, perhaps with as much activity as there was with my own family. Except, my family's was simply fear of false accusations - at least, I thought it was.  
  
What if it wasn't, though? Did I not have a duty to report such activity? And if so, how could one say that duty was stronger than one's family ties? Family had long been the most important thing to me. The joy of doing things for children had prompted the building of my own Schatzi Toy Company. I'd tried desperately to provide not only happiness but also money for my family to survive in that home during the war. And yet, I'd also ensured they would have a husband and father after the war by not going into combat. How could I throw that away? Perhaps, I contemplated, this was another reason why Hitler was bad, making people think they could throw that wonderful life away.  
As I entered, I kissed my wife. "Hogan will be here with a truck and...what is this box?" A large crate, over half as tall as I, stood in the foyer. Heidi, entranced at the window, crouching slightly and looking akin to a goalie, provided an even odder sight. Was she waiting for Kris Kringle?  
  
"We must take it," Oskar stated simply, referring to the box. The fear seemed gone, as Gretchen and the boy calmly stood around the inside of the front door. The mood seemed totally different. But, how?  
  
"I did not ask what to do with it, I asked what it was," I noted, puzzled over the response.  
  
A resolute look emerged as the adolescent proclaimed that, "There are items we do not wish to leave behind in there."  
I considered the matter. "No, it would be too risky." I knew Hogan would not have done...well, whatever he did carrying along a bunch of stuff.  
  
"This box has to be taken," Oskar insisted.  
  
"Oskar," my wife suggested, "perhaps you should tell him what is in the box."  
  
The boy sidled up to his mother. "I am not totally sure of Father's..." The boy winked, and I again felt torn. Did that mean loyalty to us, or to his leaders?  
  
"He can be trusted, remember what our friend said," came my wife, with another wink.  
  
"But why, mother, why...why could I not tell that Hogan, then?"  
  
I liked the idea. Yes, Hogan could explain why one never traveled in dangerous conditions with huge loads of stuff. I certainly couldn't say why, though from all I'd seen I had an inkling.  
As I considered my approach, my children whispered back and forth, several reciting Bible verses. Seeing Hogan at the front of the residence in his German officer's uniform, complete with fake graying hair and mustache, provided great relief, though I had to assure my daughter Hogan was not some fellow named "Ahab," whoever that was. That was not even a German name, I thought to myself. To Hogan, I said "Colonel Hogan, please tell Oskar we must be able to go quickly, we cannot take this big crate." I'd hate to have to lift it, it looks heavy, I told myself.  
  
"A moment, please, Herr Hogan," Oskar spoke with an air of confidence I never would have expected. I struggled to determine what they were saying, but could pick up nothing but some small gestures and a nod from Hogan.  
  
Suddenly, Hogan walked to me and motioned toward the crate. Hogan instructed Oskar and Albert to take opposite corners, with he and I doing the same. I stood by my corner, staring blankly as I hefted it up to my shoulders. "B-b-but what..."  
  
"He said please," Hogan told me, which was of little comfort. However, I knew that at least for now, the best thing to do was to keep my mouth shut.  
  
As LeBeau sat stationed at the wheel, Newkirk helped them carry the box to the truck. "It'll be a tight fit, the youngest kids can sit on the box, we'll cover it with a tarp," the colonel commented. Newkirk jogged to the front, with LeBeau getting into the back.  
  
As my youngest children sat on the crate and the truck sped off, likely minutes before the Gestapo arrived, I considered the memories which the house held - family dinners, exciting Christmases before the war, the joyous birthday celebrations and births - and sighed mournfully. Perhaps my family, too, felt this way, and this was their way of showing it. It would be sad to leave all the pictures, all the drawings by the children, all the schoolwork, even if only for a while.  
  
But, I thought, would the home not still be there when they got back? No, the Gestapo was coming, they would dismantle it, and discard the useless things. Yes, I thought, that could easily be the reason.  
  
But wait, I asked myself as Hogan and Newkirk drove along. Why would they have this ready so fast? How long had I been gone to see Hogan, fifteen minutes? Probably less. Then again, what secret would require hiding? A radio wouldn't be that big, and secret plans or names appeared to be what my wife requested that I eat. My stomach growled as I looked upon LeBeau and thought of strudel. Maybe little pieces in some of his delicious apple strudel wouldn't be so bad.  
  
As I pondered these things, one of my middle children held a flashlight and played with it. "Better put that away, dear," came Gretchen.  
"But, Heidi is scared of the dark, Mother," spoke Carl.  
  
"Come here, I will hold you," I said before realizing it was almost pitch black without the light. "Wait a minute, what am I saying, she cannot see me. Hold that flashlight on me." Heinrich, eight, did so, and Heidi jumped into my lap.  
"All right, remain quiet, everyone, we are going to France. It is quicker and there will be fewer checkpoints, but also more military. This truck'll fit right in." It took me a second to realize the whispering voice was that of Sergeant Kinchloe, one of the camp's few Negro prisoners. What was happening at Stalag 13 now, I wondered.  
  
"Father," whispered Oskar, "I have assured with the others, I must ask you, if you died today, do you know you would go to Heaven?"  
  
What a silly question, I thought. "We are going to make it," I began, suddenly feeling that odd sensation I got when Hogan would try to trick me. What kind of question was this, really? Especially with the Gestapo coming? "We are going to make it...aren't we?" I asked, growing concerned. Suddenly, the fears of being discovered - even betrayed - flew back to me.  
"I do not know, I only know I prayed long and hard about this, for great courage and guidance, and time to prepare," Oskar remarked. I discerned extreme faith in the child, the kind I didn't expect until the boy was me age, and I was a very old man. He hadn't answered my question, though; he merely produced another question. Oskar asked: "Well, suppose you were to stand before God and He were to ask 'why should I let you into Heaven,' what would you say?  
  
That didn't sound too foreboding, I determined, stating that, "I have always believed we must all be nice to each other, and not cause any trouble, and I try to live that way," I stated.  
  
"Keep it down," LeBeau ordered as we slowed, "we may be near a checkpoint." The truck stopped, then sped up after several somewhat tense seconds. I turned to find my eldest son praying.  
  
"That must really work," came my simple comment. I'd sensed a grown- up attitude even two years ago, when home for a week. Oskar had taken great pride in doing many things for his mother as the "man of the house," and so I had let him do these things himself, so he could become accustomed to the adult way of life. I only wished he would not try to shut me out - or worse - now that I wanted to help him handle things.  
  
Oskar explained that, "I can pray because I have a personal relationship with the Lord, and I have found there is a better way than following our leaders. They are not as you have taught us to be, they are not nice."  
  
I considered that I, too, was being felt out, to determine how much I could be trusted. It was almost like Hogan would...no, I told myself, don't be silly. You have been around that prisoner too much, Hans, everything remind you of him. Perhaps I'd been away too long, I decided. It seemed fitting, perhaps, that the young man would turn to God, and not to me, for guidance.  
  
But, our leaders...are they not doing what is best, thought I. How can they not be if they are our leaders? I sighed, looking downcast. The notion of perfect human leaders was the devil's most common deception, Hogan had told me once.  
  
"How many people will claim they were 'just following orders' when the Judgment comes," came Oskar's voice, seeming to me less a question than a statement. Indeed, it mirrored my own feelings at times. And yet, this sense of duty had been drilled into me, as much as I disliked it sometimes. "We are to put no one before God," the child concluded.  
  
Kinch - that is what we called Sergeant Kinchloe - suddenly remarked: "His ways - His love, mercy, justice, and so on -are perfect," the emphasis on "His" implying to me that human leaders - my leaders - were not. "He commands us to love others, to be good to others, and to not pay attention to one's outside appearance, such as one's race."  
  
I put my hands on my head, my mind spinning. "You are giving me too much to think about, do not confuse me," I insisted. And yet, I could feel just as I'd felt when Hogan taught me about Hitler's evils. Such confusion enabled him very quickly to ignore certain things. Perhaps my fleeing my homeland was just another sign of how I ignored or shied away from problems.  
  
The thoughts on race troubled me as I thought of my childrens' playmates. I felt it wrong to take innocent lives, or to blow up others' houses. But, how did one get around the wrong of it without defying what our leaders had encouraged? Yes, there had to be a higher power, I deduced, one defining right and wrong. If I criticized the turning in of family members or the taking of peoples' property as barbaric, then surely that meant that orders could be faulty, even evil, unless there were no absolute right and wrong, and nations could do what they wanted. And yet, saying that anything was okay if it was what someone felt allowed one to implement such evil schemes.  
  
I considered through a thought-induced headache the duty espoused by the Nazis of turning one's family in for whatever might be in that crate. A duty clearly existed to turn in these prisoners with whom he traveled - that duty, of course, existed for any soldier. And yet, as I pondered my love for my children and wife, and my great respect for those who were letting me escape the horrors of the Gestapo, such a duty seemed more and more to defy all logic and rationale. Even my soldierly duty seemed to defy it. Somebody had to be able to say "no" to a leader on that point. Yes, I decided, that someone was a perfect God.  
I'd been neutral before, not wishing to take sides in the war or blame anyone for the hostilities. Such an attitude, I felt, would cause the least amount of trouble. For the first time since the fuhrer came to power, as I truly pondered this absolute right and wrong, I found myself considering that my nation may be worse than most, and that perhaps it could be clearly stated that we were dead wrong on many things.  
  
"Oskar," I decided to comment, feeling the boy may mistrust me because I was in the military, "just because I was a guard does not make me a bad person; I never wanted to be a real soldier, and even if I was, I do not put my trust in this so-called master race as some do." Was he still thinking of poor Micah, Isaac, and...had there been a third? Did he think I condoned that? I searched myself thoroughly, and determined I could never have condoned the forced...whatever of that family, especially the children.  
  
"You will not be punished for the nation, Father, but the Bible says all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. That means all of us, even little children like Heinrich and Heidi. Even I have sinned, have done bad things, at times," the boy stated softly.  
  
"You? You are a wonderful boy," I exclaimed, reaching to give him a little hug and stretching too far, causing someone - I thought it was Carter - to push away.  
  
I thought I could see my eldest nod through the near pitch blackness. "As far as humans go, I try very hard, and have done better than what many do. However, our works do not help us get closer to God. He is perfect, and nobody can profess to show perfect love, kindness, and compassion, though you try to be nice, and usually succeed."  
  
I nodded. I had dated another woman once when really lonely - a woman who turned out to be a spy. I'd gotten drunk at times. Yes, I could see being called a sinner. "If it is that hard, if we have to be perfect to approach God..." I began, realizing that making things seem hopeless was the absolute worst thing one could do to a still-impressionable youth. And yet, wasn't that how Oskar seemed to feel from his statements?  
  
The boy continued, and I sensed great hope. "You see, God knows we cannot make ourselves perfect as He is, no amount of work could. So, he sent His Son, Jesus, to suffer for us. He was God in the flesh as a person, and was sinless, but He became sin for us when He died on the cross, and took our punishment. Then He rose again, so we could get to Heaven."  
  
"He came back to life," I muttered, considering that not even Hogan could pull off something as inconceivable as bringing someone back to life. And, I'd seen Hogan do some pretty incredible and bizarre things. "Jesus must have been God."  
  
"He was God - in the form of a person. He is in Heaven now, and all one has to do is admit one is a sinner, that you have done bad things, repent, believe that Jesus was God in the flesh, suffered and died for your sins and rose again, and choose to accept Him as Savior. It is not churchgoing, or knowledge, or anything I could do, but the perfect blood of Jesus that can save us."  
  
"It is that simple?" I inquired, contemplating how fabulous that would be. Suddenly, the children happily related how they'd been saved, mostly by Oskar's example and efforts. As I mused on how immature I'd been as a teen, I concluded that it had to be the child's intense devotion to God, that part one child stated about having Jesus live inside of them, in a personal relationship with the Lord, that allowed him to carry on like this.  
  
I cogitated heavily, and prayed to accept Jesus as my savior. As a warm and excited feeling bubbled up in me, I again considered the box. The truck slowed down...how long had it been?  
  
Kinch hushed us, as voices began surrounding the truck. My eyes bulged open as I noticed a Gestapo agent opening the back doors of the truck, a tiny request for help from Jesus emanating from the girl on my lap.  
  
"You see," I heard Hogan say to the sentries as the former head POW approached the back of the truck. "It is just as we said." I really wished I'd known what he said.  
  
"Your papers, please," the lieutenant spoke to me, "sergeants Schultz and Hoffman."  
  
"P-p-papers?!?" I inquired with incredibly wide eyes, glancing over at LeBeau. I sincerely hoped was going to identify himself as Hoffman. How did these men get into these messes?  
  
I breathed a sigh of relief as Hogan procured a stack of documents. "I have them all here; I did not want the children playing with them and losing them."  
  
"Is this true?" the lieutenant asked me as the other agents checked to ensure the items were in order. I whimpered and nodded, suddenly realizing I had civilian clothes on; oh, why couldn't we have just gone to Switzerland, I asked myself. Perhaps we could have snuck through all those mountains. "I can see it with the others, but how are your children going to help us on the front?"  
  
I struggled to think of something. Thoughts of reporting anyone having long since departed, I considered claiming to know nothing, that it was all Hogan's idea - or whatever his fake name was. It had to work, I felt - he always came up with something...shall I say unique?  
  
Luckily, the American colonel spoke. "Their hands are small enough, they can fit the shells into the guns much more easily," Hogan explained. I sure hoped Hogan didn't run out of answers, because this fellow wasn't running out of questions.  
  
"We need to inspect the ammunition crate," the lieutenant told us, "to ensure there are no escaped prisoners." He turned to Hogan and explained that, "we discovered a secret sabotage operation running out of a prison camp, number 13, most likely by prisoners, and a massive breakout has occurred at that camp." Sabotage?! That wasn't very nice, even for enemy soldiers. "Half the camp has caved in." The more I thought, perhaps I did hear a few explosions as we drove away from there - my mind had been quite preoccupied, though.  
  
"Are you aware that you are holding up the war effort!" shouted Hogan, and suddenly I felt some relief. While the German insistence on obeying all orders doomed us when Hitler began persuading us, that desire backfired when it came to spots like this. Hogan began loudly accusing the sentries of treasonous activity for attempting to stop soldiers from going to the front, and they soon relented. Why not - to them, he was a German colonel.  
  
"We can allow you to go the last several miles, and carry the items. However, the front is very close, around the old French-German border, so you must leave the truck and march," the lead guard asserted. Pointing, he added that "you will find a battalion directly over that ridge."  
  
We climbed out of the truck as Hogan noted that they would need to carry the crate a while, since there was too much for them all to carry. Wait, I asked himself, how did they explain Kinch and Carter, who were not wearing German uniforms? Cannon fodder? Infiltrating Gestapo agents? Then again, I also bore no uniform.  
  
Passing a quizzical look to Kinch, I received a partial answer. "He said I was painted to resemble a black man to fool the enemy. I hid my face so he couldn't see how real I looked."  
  
Okaaaay, I thought, I don't know why he bought that idea. Then again, I likely would have bought it, too, if I'd been accused of treason as Hogan had been doing to them. I am gullible in that way. I often fell for Hogan's tricks. I just wished my willful ignorance to be acknowledged somehow. Usually this had been done through food, but now it was being done by their aid in the escape - escape from what, we didn't need to escape, did we? - of myself and my family.  
  
The children had caught little sleep after midnight - an average of 30 minutes in the truck. We adults hadn't slept at all. Strength somewhat sapped, six people now carried the box, turning away from the point indicated by the Gestapo once they were out of sight of any Germans. It began with Hogan, Oskar, Albert, Kinch, Newkirk, and myself doing so. What in the world could be in here, I inquired inwardly again, befuddled as we lugged the box over what seemed like a thousand miles.  
  
Oskar led us in prayer, and he and Gretchen recited several Bible verses as soon as we were out of earshot of others, verses about bearing one's own cross daily. These seemed fitting with the heavy load we carted through sporadic gunfire that sometimes cast a dim light over the grounds. The area stained with the putrid smell of blood and mortar.  
  
"Is this that valley you talk about?" my daughter Heidi asked, sounding tired and scared.  
  
Carter picked her up and carried her, inquiring, "What valley?"  
  
Heidi answered, "the one with the shadows and the death?"  
  
The thought allowed me a momentary chuckle. "I believe you are talking about a verse I heard Oskar say in the truck."  
  
Carl recited the verse. "'Though I walk rough the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; the Lord is with me, thy rod and thy staff, they comfort me.'"  
  
"Is this the one?" Heidi repeated.  
  
When Oskar replied, "it sure is" while grunting and hefting the box up a little, was joking or not.  
  
As we marched, often changing spots and getting occasional rest from our box, I wondered what may have occurred at Stalag 13. No doubt, someone had discovered Hogan's activity. I couldn't understand how, though a number of ways existed. A puzzling thought struck me - I couldn't tell how I felt about the discovery. Was I happy that the war effort no longer suffered, or not?  
  
Knowing of the discovery of Hogan's operation mostly convinced me the Gestapo hadn't openly searched for me, and that the Gestapo would have found nothing of significance at our house. Indeed, Klink's had also been searched, and was likely a higher priority - why suspect something in a place miles away? The planned search of my residence was probably going to be a precautionary one.  
  
Why, then, was my family so anxious? What was in the box - I'd asked that before, hadn't I? Were they working with Hogan? I snickered at the thought, and almost dropped my edge of the crate. An offer of relief from two of my boys, Carl and Heinrich, who carried nothing, was accepted.  
  
How ironic, if that crate of guns idea had been my family's...no, that would not work, I realized. Number one, this crate would not feel so doggone heavy. Secondly, even if they'd put guns in there, how would they know Hogan would go to my home town? They couldn't know, the prisoners likely would have gone somewhere totally different if not for running into me on the way out of camp and seeing the benefits of using my car. The discussion of destinations proved that.  
  
Okay, so there were no guns in the box. Personal mementoes? Theoretically, yes, and Oskar, perhaps prompted by my wife, who was always rather clever, could have convinced Hogan it would be easier to carry a crate like that so he could then concoct the gun story to get us across. It would also explain why we carried it even now.  
  
Practically, however, the answer was no. So many things could be taken, how did one arrive on the items, then get them into a box and close it, within fifteen minutes? My children could have spent fifteen months arguing over one item. Besides, why have that list ready if they did not think they would be suspected? The idea seemed more logical than guns, but marginally so.  
  
That brought me to the thought of treason. "Did you ever eat paper, Colonel Hogan," I blurted as I took a corner of the crate from the weary Hogan. By the puzzled look on Hogan's face, I deduced the concept must be incredibly odd. Thus, I presumed that he never had. I seemed somewhat surprised to hear no jokes about my inquiry, but decided the others were all too exhausted from carting the box, or in Carter's case, from struggling along once more carrying Heidi, who had fallen asleep.  
  
Heinrich finally offered one quip, wearily asking if Gretchen remembered to say "grace" while eating it. I chuckled, considering my new- found faith. Yes, Underground workers with such faith as Oskar's likely did say "grace" when eating paper, if they ever did eat it, thanking the Lord for protection, not nutrition.  
  
If my family worked with the Underground, though, I hadn't noticed it. They went along with business as usual, feeding the widow, eating a lot, running errands for others, and so on. Unless, of course, they were too scared to tell me. But, why, then, would me wife trust me to eat paper - okay, maybe that was because it was just a little strip. But, even if it contained lists of names of contacts, that didn't explain the box, because we would have no reason to carry it, since we would have eaten it.  
  
I paused - of course! I'd put some of it in my pocket. I asked Gretchen to carry the box a little, which she did, handing the dozing Heidi to Kinch. Meanwhile, I pulled out the slip of paper and read it by the low light of daybreak, increasing glacially in brightness.  
  
I raised my eyebrows. "Ada Mueller...Mueller..." I pondered. And, what was this? Date of death? Who was this, and why was this with them?  
Before I could ask, a guard roving around in a motorcycle approached us. "Halt!" he shouted, stopping the vehicle and pointing a gun at us. "Who goes there?" I shuddered for a moment,then realized he'd spoken in English.  
  
Hogan spoke an apparent code. "This old man is rolling home. Radio your leaders, tell them to inform London Papa Bear is here with the seven little pigs." The code fit, I considered as the sentry - probably American - reported this information. Even Gretchen ate like a pig,. We plopped on the ground, taking a welcome breather from carrying the box. Heidi snored in her mother's arms once more.  
  
After several minutes, the American corporal's demeanor changed from hostile to a curious cordiality. I thought him like a friendly dog greeting a stranger. Lowering his rifle and sitting down his radio, the Allied sentry told us that "London says 'great work,' and 'welcome home.' How may we be of assistance?"  
  
"There is an unexpected package we brought, a truck would be most helpful," Hogan said as he removed his fake mustache.  
  
My befuddled demeanor looked most comical at that point, I imagined. "Unexpected," I muttered - so they could not have worked with Hogan, because his last radio transmission, even if it were from his "girlfriend's," would have been before he agreed to take the box! This further spun my head.  
  
I heard Oskar say he wanted to tell me something as the soldier radioed for a truck, and added the request of a crowbar at Oskar's behest. I could only fall asleep, though, getting increasingly dizzy from all this spinning my head was doing.  
  
After several minutes - which felt like a good hour's rest - I awoke. Hogan and a couple of his men were alert, discussing how this may have been a slightly faster way than getting to the coast and awaiting a submarine. I determined this was a normal night for Hogan and his men. They'd probably spent many sleepless nights doing whatever they did. Oskar also seemed wide awake, but this I attributed to his age.  
  
I moved around, and the sentry reported that the truck had arrived, asking me how the escape went. "I am one of the little piggies," I corrected him, trying to remember the code. I could see why he thought I was a prisoner - I wore civilian clothes, and Allied soldiers were wearing German uniforms - but it would be a real shame if the American Armed Forces had ever inducted a man in my lousy condition.  
  
Thanks for rescuing me from trying to explain, I thought as Hogan untangled the situation for the Allied soldiers. One of the front seat passengers radioed for German troop locations.  
  
"I think we are safe, there is not that gunfire that was always in the background," Gretchen remarked. "I am amazed, but thankful, we were able to steer clear of it."  
  
"I did not hear it," I admitted. I was too deep in thought - not that it got me any closer to an answer.  
  
My wife remarked that "I have never minded loud noises, though it reminds me of when we had to blow up the Rubins' home."  
  
The statement hit me like a thunderbolt. She...but how? Did the Gestapo force them? She tried to explain without providing much detail, stumbling as much as I would.  
  
"Dear, about the widow Mueller, is she dead?" blurted I, not knowing what else to say. The last few hours had been terribly confusing, but I knew I should start asking questions somewhere. I could always stop suddenly and choose to hear nothing.  
  
"Well, see..." she began. I wasn't sure what her stammering meant, except that she stated "we could not tell them she was dead."  
  
She couldn't tell who? That explained the death certificate in my pocket, but...  
  
As I puzzled over this statement, Oskar spoke. "Mother," the eldest remarked to Gretchen, perhaps with a hint of guilt, "I was wrong, we did not need to hide the identity papers when Father left, before he came back to tell us about the Gestapo. At least they were in the box; though perhaps they did not need to be, but, it was perhaps best." My eyes grew wider as my wife responded that it had worked out, and that Hogan's friend could have made new ones had the Gestapo not been coming.  
  
"IDs," Schultz mumbled, "what...But, they were in the box, Hogan showed our...wait a minute, do I want to know?" There couldn't have been that many ID papers, the box would not be that heavy.  
  
"It was a good backup plan at least," Oskar told his mother, "and would have worked even with no IDs, that is the wonderful thing."  
  
He must not have heard me, I deduced, but before I could ask the boy, Albert stated that, "We wanted them to think we got extra food because we were bringing food to her." I tried to comprehend Albert's odd comments, but the 13-year-old had simply confused me more. My brain had abandoned that subject.  
  
Finally, the driver reported that they were safe. Oskar announced that they could use the crowbar here, then go to the Allied camp.  
Good, I thought, but did I want to know what was in the box - wait a minute, I thought to myself. How do I know there was anything in the box? Oh, right, because it was so heavy.  
  
"It is a shame we could not get the new fake IDs fast enough," Carl noted. "We did not go through the checkpoint, though, and this way seemed better, since we were not going to Sweden or Switzerland."  
  
Fake...wait a minute, why would children need fake IDs? Oh, well, at least that cleared up my confusion regarding the IDs - Hogan had shown our real ones. But, as that confusion died, ten more questions came to its funeral.  
  
"No, Father, the new ID was for you," Albert explained.  
  
Weary as I was, I could keep silent no longer, and threw up my hands. "All right. I am officially and totally lost." I realized I would have been better off watching Hogan for a hundred years than to try to figure out all this weirdness. "We were using fake papers; we had hidden our real ones."  
  
"What?! So, it was our ID tags, but fake ones, Hogan showed...but, why did you need fake papers? Wait a minute...why would I need fake ones?!?!" I suddenly realized that was a much bigger question. My lips trembled as badly as when Hogan would show me snippets of his...whatever.  
  
Adding to my dazed condition, Oskar remarked that, "We had many plans worked out."  
"Please, I can only concentrate on one thing at a time. Let us stick with papers." Oskar assented. "What were the fake papers that you consumed, or hid, or somehow kept away from the Gestapo?"  
  
. "All right," Oskar spoke as he walked up to the crate, patches of dawn replaced by a beautiful sunrise. "One was a statement of death by a doctor, that is, Mrs. Mueller's death. One was a list of certain...friends, including one of Hogan's. One paper given after we were safely on our way was in a sealed envelope to be opened by Albert only if Mother and I died or were taken for questioning. The other was a tunnel map..."  
  
"Please," I requested tiredly, "I have been guarding Colonel Hogan and his men for over three years, I have had enough about tunnels to last me a lifetime."  
"You do not wish to know about the hideaway, and the trap door to the cellar, or the entrance under a tree trunk in the back yard?"  
  
Hogan grinned. Did he have one of these? Or more? The notion brought back somewhat painful memories, thoughts of fear at being discovered ignoring Hogan's actions and thus branded a traitor. I looked wearily at Oskar and exclaimed: "I want to hear nothing more about tunnels. Noth-ing!"  
  
Oskar nodded, and commenced opening the crate. I thought I heard the boy mutter something, but could not tell what. My wife commented, "I realized when I saw the card with her code name that I knew that so-called 'girlfriend' of Hogan's when he sent that gift through you. I could not chance showing any signs of recognizing her. That is why I pretended to be jealous and think it was your girlfriend and that Hogan was lying for you."  
  
The notions too confusing, I ignored them and observed the large box. Suddenly, as Oskar pried it open, I thought something moved in the pile of clothes.  
  
No, I thought, it cannot be moving; I have been guarding Hogan too long.  
  
As I denied the possibility, though, three figures rose glacially out of the box, their muscles likely having cramped being stuffed inside for so long. I gawked at the box, my eyes bulging halfway across the English Channel and my mouth appearing ready to allow an airplane to land as I gazed upon three children, probably about 11, 9, and 5.  
  
"We blew up the house after they took the parents for deportation so it looked like the kids died in the explosion," "Mrs. Mueller had died in an air raid, so we just used her body and the childrens' items in the fire and bribed the doctor not to report her death," "Mother was watching Micah, Isaac, and little Moses at our house when the SS took their parents away," "Recently we learned their parents were killed at a place called 'Auschwitz'," "We had wanted to get ID tags saying you matched us and that you were the father of eight children, with these three also being yours, but we couldn't do it in time," "Even when you were home we would dump food into bags when you weren't looking," and, "We visited and fed and cared for and loved them in our hideaway for almost four years" poured into my ears, registering only slightly. I suddenly recognized the older two children as my children's playmates, playmates I thought had long since perished.  
  
My airplane hanger mouth hung open as I stammered "I...I see...," beginning to insist that I saw nothing, ready to hide behind a facade of neutrality. The sensation was great, for so many other times, things had gone on barely known to me, things which I'd ignored despite their harming the Reich's efforts. Those who owned this secret, of course, would be protected even more so, for they were my family, and I felt much more loyal to them.  
  
Quickly, though, I realized I was in Allied territory, where I could finally admit to wanting to do nice, warm, and compassionate things. I could admit to seeing my family's wonderfully courageous act, and three survivors of what I feared could be the worst example of hatred in human history. Ironically, finally able to see such glorious works, I couldn't. More elated than I have ever been, or could ever hope to be, on this Earth, tears of pride and joy flooded my eyes, streaming down my face as I embraced my five old, and three new, children. 


End file.
